


Getaway Car

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awesome Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Fluff, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Mistletoe, POV Clint Barton, Pre-Slash, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: The guy regains his balance and starts running again. He slips one more time, slides a little more, and then suddenly he’s right next to the car, fumbling at the handle of the passenger side door. A blast of cold wind comes as he yanks it open, practically falling into the seat in a swirl of snowflakes.“Go, go!” he yells, and Clint goes. He doesn’t even question it, just slams the car into drive and shoots out into the street, skidding a little on the ice.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 39
Kudos: 215
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	Getaway Car

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coal_burningbright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coal_burningbright/gifts).



> Winterhawk Wonderland gift for coal_burningbright! The prompt was "I was sitting in my car when you jumped in and yelled "go go!" Hope this lives up to your expectations. Merry holiday season to you!

Any other day, Clint might have felt vaguely guilty about hot-wiring and stealing a car. He does, after all, possess a _tiny_ bit of decorum and decency, no matter what jibes Stark likes to throw at him. But in his defense, he’d needed to get downtown Manhattan for a robot fight, and the subway just wasn’t going to cut it, and there was no way he was hauling a suitcase full of Stark explosives and his favorite recurve into the backseat of a taxi.

So, random car it was. Except when he’d rolled up to the fight, Tasha had taken one look at him and said, “You’re going to put that back, right?”

“Of course I will,” he’d protested. “I’m a good person. I’m only borrowing it.”

“See that you do,” she’d said, then pulled the case from his hands and disappeared into a pile of robots.

It had been a typical fight, with all the usual things happening. Except that instead of limping home and pouring himself into his bed, Clint had quailed under Natasha’s narrow-eyed glare and meekly followed her pointing finger to the car. “I’m going,” he’d muttered, clumsily opening the door. “No need to glare at me.”

“Try not to bleed on those nice seats,” she’d said, and walked off the opposite direction.

Clint had gotten in the car, turned on some Christmas tunes, and started driving. It was only after about ten minutes in that he realized he couldn’t remember where he’d gotten the damn thing from in the first place. Which is why he’s _still_ sitting in the car, two hours later, and seriously considering just leaving it and going home.

“The police can find it,” he says to the softly falling snow outside. “Right? That’s their job.”

The snow doesn’t answer him, and he scowls, then tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Okay,” he sighs, idly poking the little compass charm dangling from the rearview. “Okay. Where even was I this morning?”

He’s halfway through mentally retracing his steps when a blur of movement catches his eye down the street. He tenses automatically, twisting towards the bow in the backseat. _I swear if this is another robot…_

It’s not. It’s a guy, dressed not so appropriately for the weather, practically sprinting down the street. Clint watches with mild amusement as he skids on the snow, nearly sliding into a lamppost. It’s the kind of move _he_ would pull, and suddenly he can understand why his teammates snicker every time he’s clumsy. It really is somewhat entertaining.

The guy regains his balance and starts running again. He slips one more time, slides a little more, and then suddenly he’s right next to the car, fumbling at the handle of the passenger side door. A blast of cold wind comes as he yanks it open, practically falling into the seat in a swirl of snowflakes.

“Go, go!” he yells, and Clint goes. He doesn’t even question it, just slams the car into drive and shoots out into the street, skidding a little on the ice.

After a moment, his higher functions kick in, and he stares at his hands clenched on the wheel, then looks over at the guy next to him. He’s sitting there, half-turned in the seat, staring at Clint with a wide-eyed expression.

Clint bites his lip, then says, “Merry Christmas?”

“Who the fuck are you?” comes the response, which…fair.

“I’m Clint,” he says, awkwardly waving. “Who are you?”

“Where’s Peggy?”

“Who’s Peggy?”

“This is her car!”

“What?”

The guy points at the compass. “I’d recognize that anywhere. Who are you, and why do you have Peggy’s car?”

“I’m Clint,” he says again, trying to keep his voice calm and level. This guy doesn’t _scare_ him, but he’d really rather not get in a fistfight while he’s driving. “I borrowed this car for…reasons.”

“Borrowed it,” the guy repeats, voice flat. “So you stole it.”

“Stealing implies keeping. I was going to put it back.” _Once I figured out where it went._ “Who are you, anyway? Why are you jumping in random cars and telling people to drive?”

The guy scowls. He’s actually kind of good-looking, now that Clint’s over the shock of him suddenly jumping into the car. His hair is framed around his face, blue eyes intense and piercing, and he’s got a jawline that could go on for days. Definitely Clint’s type, angry glares aside.

“It’s not a _random_ car,” the guy says. “It belongs to my friend Peggy. Who you stole it from. I should call the police.”

“Don’t do that,” Clint says quickly. “I was going to put it back, okay? I just couldn’t remember where I got it from.”

“Steal a lot of cars, do you?”

“No!” He pauses. “Well, sometimes. But I’m an Avenger, I needed to get downtown—”

The guy interrupts him. “You’re an Avenger?”

Clint nods.

“Are you Iron Fist?”

“ _What?_ No, I’m—” Clint scowls, rubs his forehead. “Why does everyone think that? No, I’m Hawkeye.”

“Hawkeye. The bow guy?”

Clint gestures to the backseat. “Live and in person,” he says as the guy turns to look at the bow sitting on the leather. “Does that make this better?”

“No! You’re supposed to be _helping_ people, not stealing their cars—”

“I can see this is going to be a sticking point for you,” Clint interrupts, “so let me make this easy. I’ll pull over, you can have the car, and I’ll just limp my sad ass back to my bed and my dog. Okay? You can drive it back to your friend and tell her I’m very, very sorry.”

The guy scowls, then says, “I can’t drive.”

Clint sighs. “You can’t drive?”

“I live in New York City, why the hell would I need to drive?”

“Okay, fair,” Clint says. “But that kinda makes things difficult, then.” He pulls the car over, illegally parking it, and turns to him. “Do you want to call your friend? Have her meet us somewhere?”

“I don’t have my phone.”

“You don’t—” Clint sighs again. “Well, I don’t have mine either. I don’t bring it on missions.”

“You took Peggy’s car on a mission?”

“No, I took it to _get_ to a mission.” He runs a hand through his hair, grimaces at the soreness in his shoulders. He’s strong, but pulling back that bow over and over and over takes it out of him. “We could find a payphone?”

The guy snorts. “What century are you from?”

Clint scowls. “Who even are you, anyway?”

“Bucky. This is my friend’s car.”

“Yes, we’ve been _over_ that little fact. I said I was sorry. Next time I’ll just let the robots destroy the city, how does that sound?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky growls. “I just—“ He sighs, tips his head against the seat. “Wasn’t expecting this.”

“Yeah, well, I was supposed to spend the day watching _Dog Cops_ with my dog and eating pizza, but sometimes things don’t go the way we expect, do they?” He sighs. “What was all that about, anyway? Jumping in the car and yelling for me to go?”

Bucky grimaces. “I forgot to get my buddy a Christmas present,” he says.

Clint looks at the clock. “It’s seven at night.”

“I know that.”

“Christmas is tomorrow.”

“I _know_ that.” He sounds frustrated. “Look, I lose track of time, okay? I had a bad couple days, holed up in my apartment, and I forgot that it was Christmas. I called Peggy, asked her to meet me, and here we are.”

Clint studies him, suddenly seeing him in a new light. “You…doing okay now?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m fine. It happens.” He shifts a little in his seat, and his jacket falls open, revealing a shimmer of silver around his neck.

“You military?” Clint asks, gesturing to the dog tags.

He nods tightly. “Army. Sniper. Five years. Just got out a few months ago.” The words are rote, like they’re grounding, and his left hand is clenching on his knee. There’s a little whir as he does, and Clint suddenly realizes that’s not a glove on his hand—it _is_ his hand. The whole thing is metal, little interconnected plates all put together. It’s awesome, really, and Clint kind of wants to touch it.

He doesn’t, because as previously mentioned, he does have _some_ sense of decorum. “Thanks for your service,” he says, the words as empty as they’ve always sounded to him, and Bucky just flashes a tight smile before visibly forcing his hand to loosen.

There’s something about him. Maybe it’s the tense posture, or talking about being lost in time, or just the haunted look in his eyes. But it’s almost like looking in a mirror, and Clint suddenly feels a swell of sympathy for the guy. He knows what that’s like. He knows it intimately.

“Okay,” he says, putting his hand on the control column. “What does he like?”

“What does who like?”

“Your friend. What does he like?”

“His name’s Steve,” Bucky says. “He likes art stuff. I was going to get him a sketchbook or something. Except I don’t know what kind.”

Clint brightens. “I know a little bit,” he says. “One of my teammates likes art too. There’s a store a little ways across town, we might be able to make it there in time. They close at nine.”

“That…would be helpful,” Bucky admits, relaxing a little in the seat. “I could use a hand with it. I’m pretty illiterate about art things.”

“I am too,” Clint says. “But Rogers likes his sketchbooks, and one time we got sent out on a mission—”

“Wait—you’re talking about Steve Rogers?”

Clint stares at him. It’s not the usual _oooh, Captain America_ voice he normally hears from civilians. “You…know him?”

“Yeah!” Bucky sits up a little. “That’s the Steve I’m getting this for; we’ve been friends since we were kids growing up—”

It’s a testament to how fucking tired he is that it takes him a moment to put things together. “Oh shit,” he suddenly says. If this were a cartoon, a lightbulb would be flicking on over his head. “Oh—oh! You’re his friend! The guy from Brooklyn?” Clint grins. “Nice to meet you, man. I was half-convinced he was making you up, honestly.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I don’t come around much. I try to stay away from the whole Avengers gig.”

“Fair,” Clint says. “I try to stay away from it too.”

Bucky snorts, then looks surprised about it, like he wasn’t expecting Clint to make him laugh. “Okay. Well, I guess if he lectured you on sketchbooks, you probably have a better idea of what to buy him.”

“How have you not been lectured on sketchbooks? You guys have been friends since like…before birth, almost. He talks about you _so_ much.”

Bucky looks faintly pleased at this, maybe a little embarrassed. “I do get lectured,” he says. “I just don’t listen. Where’s this store?”

“Across town.” Clint pulls the car back out into traffic, slipping a little on the snow. “Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes. I know a couple shortcuts. Don’t think they close ’til nine, anyway.”

Bucky nods. “I really appreciate it,” he says. “The ride. Even if it’s in a stolen car.” He suddenly looks worried. “Oh shit. Peggy’s probably losing it. This car was a gift from her husband, he’s on deployment.”

“You can tell me where to put it,” Clint says. “When we’re done. And I’ll pay her for it. I didn’t _want_ to take it; I was kinda limited on options at the time.”

“Public transport’s a thing, you know”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t gonna haul a case of explosives on a fucking bus—“

“You have _explosives_ in here?”

“Not anymore,” Clint says. “We used them all. I think. Stark’s got the rest, anyway. Doesn’t matter.”

Bucky sighs. “Peggy’s gonna kill you,” he says. “Seriously. She will eviscerate you with a single look.”

“I have a friend like that.” Clint shrugs. “Ever meet Black Widow? Scary looks don’t mean a damn thing to me anymore.”

“You haven’t met Peggy,” Bucky says ominously.

Clint shrugs again. “I’m pretty good at groveling,” he says, and turns right at a stoplight. Then he stops, scowling at the sudden appearance of orange cones and lights before them. “Damn. Okay. Uh…”

“Detour,” Bucky says, pointing, and Clint nods, turning down the street. “So what was the mission?”

“Robots.” Clint winces as his various injuries make themselves known again. “Big, scary fuckin’ robots.”

“Did you win?”

“We kicked ass. I think. I don’t know. I was wrestling with a couple of them at the end, missed most of the mop-up.”

Bucky nods. “You look like hell, you know.”

“Thank you,” Clint says dryly. “I appreciate that.”

“You’re not getting blood on the seats, right?”

“No. Tasha told me not to.”

“Good.” Bucky looks around. “You realize this road is a one-way?”

“What?” Clint suddenly sees the signs. “Oh, shit.”

He turns down another street, which somehow ends up funneling him onto another one-way, which ends up dumping him on the highway.

“Uh,” he says, merging onto it, because what the hell else can he do. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, looking around. “I don’t drive.”

“I don’t either,” Clint admits. “I don’t actually have a license. I only drive when I have to.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, then starts laughing. “Peggy’s going to kill both of us,” he finally says. “You for stealing her car, me for going along with this.”

“Alternatively,” Clint says, “we could just keep going and not come back.”

Bucky laughs again. Clint likes it. Likes it a lot, really. The tenseness disappears when he’s laughing, his whole body seeming to relax for a moment. “Tempting,” he says. “But I did promise myself I’d buy Steve a Christmas present, so…”

“Lemme get off the highway,” Clint says, and he gets off at the next exit, ending up in a neighborhood he vaguely recognizes. “Okay. I think—I _think_ —that we can go back down this way? And then that’ll…” He frowns, looking around. “Wait. What street is this?”

“You’re almost out of gas.”

“What?”

Bucky points, and Clint looks down at the dashboard. “Oh. Shit.”

“Just park it,” Bucky says, and Clint maneuvers the car through the snowy streets, ending up in the parking lot of a pharmacy.

He throws it into park, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Well. Now what?”

Bucky sighs, rubbing between his eyebrows with his metal hand. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, looking stressed. “I just—can we just find a Target? I’ll get him a pack of crayons or something.”

Clint laughs, and Bucky’s mouth quirks in a little smile. “Tell you what,” he says. “We’ll leave the car here, go find a bus or a taxi or whatever. Get to the store, find a sketchbook, and then figure out a ride back. Or if I have to pay for a tow truck, that’s fine. I mean—it’s kinda my fault.”

“It’s definitely your fault,” Bucky says. “But yeah. That works. I mean, we’re already in this, so…” He shrugs.

“I really am sorry,” Clint says. “For what it’s worth.”

Bucky shrugs again. “I’m not the one you’ll have to apologize to,” he says. “But you seem a decent enough guy. I’ll make sure Peggy doesn’t hurt you too much.”

“You’re so kind,” Clint tells him, and shuts off the car. He gets out, grimacing at the cold, and slings his quiver on before grabbing his bow case from the back. He should’ve worn gloves, dammit. “Alright. Let’s go. We passed a bus stop a few blocks back, we can try there.”

They start walking, cutting through a park. It’s snowing harder now, the swirling flakes killing visibility. It’s like a little bubble around them—oddly peaceful, the normal sounds of the city almost seeming muffled.

“This is nice,” Bucky says quietly, looking up at the sky. Clint takes the moment to study him, watching the way the snowflakes catch in his unfairly long eyelashes. “I missed snow. When I was overseas.” He blinks, looks over at Clint. “Afghanistan.”

“Oh,” Clint says. “Hot.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, Clint. It’s a desert.”

“Fuck off,” Clint says, and Bucky grins at him, face suddenly flushed pink. Clint can’t help but return it, emboldened and enthralled by the sudden joy in Bucky’s eyes, the delight that’s written all over him as he looks around the park.

It fades after a second, though, and Bucky tilts his head. “Do you hear that?”

“What?” But then he does, his ears catching the sound of a fight nearby. He moves instantly, following the sound of fighting—punches, shouts, a high-pitched scream that almost sounds like a _kid_ —

Clint’s done this enough times that he’s got it down to a science. He pops the locks on the case while he’s running, dropping it in the snow as he snaps open the recurve bow with one hand. It only takes him a second to assess the situation, and then he’s loosing an arrow, pinning the would-be assailant against a nearby tree. The guy yelps, arms flailing, and Clint vaults over a park bench before closing the distance between them and slamming an arm against his throat. “Hi,” he says. “I’m the ghost of Christmas future. I’m here to tell you you’re making a major fucking mistake.”

“Let me go!” the guy snarls, struggling in his grip. “Who the fuck are you? Is this an _arrow_?”

“Neat, isn’t it?” Clint shoves his arm forward harder. He’s tired, and the snow’s slippery, but he’s still stronger than this guy. He has to be strong, to hold his own with Steve and the rest. “What’s going on here, huh? It’s almost Christmas, buddy. You really wanna ruin the spirit like this?”

“I need money, fuck off—”

“I need a warm drink and a long vacation, but sometimes life just doesn’t work that way.” He looks over his shoulder at the other people. It’s a father and his kids, all three of them huddled in the snow a few feet away. “You guys okay? Got a phone?”

“I called the police already,” the father says, and sure enough, a couple cars arrive a few minutes later, flashing lights cutting through the snow. They’re understandably confused about the arrow, and the guy pinned to a tree, but Clint manages to clear things up with a flash of his Avengers I.D. card. Then it’s just a matter of taking statements, and answering questions. He finally manages to extract himself, retrieving his arrow and sticking it back in the quiver before jogging back over to Bucky.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m contractually obligated to stop that kind of shit.”

“Really?”

“No,” Clint admits, and Bucky laughs. “But I’m not an asshole, so…”

“Fair,” Bucky says. “Think we missed our bus though.”

“Oh.” Clint brushes snow out of his hair and retrieves his bow case, tucking everything away. He’s really fucking cold, shaking a little as he comes down from the adrenaline rush. “I’m—okay. Wanna get a taxi?”

“God, yes,” Bucky says, and nudges him towards the road. It only takes them a few minutes to catch one, and they tumble into the backseat, brushing snow off themselves and breathing a sigh of relief at the warmth.

“Where go?” asks the driver, and Clint pauses, suddenly realizing he has no idea where this art store is at all. He has a general idea, but not an exact address.

“Uh,” he says.

Bucky groans and tips his head back against the seat. “You don’t know where it is?”

“I do!” Clint protests. “But just—you know—I’m not a GPS—”

The driver nods. “Is Christmas,” he says in broken English, a jovial smile on his face. “We can figure out, yes?”

Clint thinks for a moment, then starts describing the place as best he can. He’s terrible about this kind of stuff— _he_ knows how to get where he wants to go, but Tasha’s always telling him his direction-giving skills need work. Apparently, “turn left by the guy with the funny sign and then right at that one place where there’s always eight million pigeons” don’t count as decent location markers.

But the guy brightens more as Clint talks, his impressive mustache bobbing in midair. “I know place,” he says, and flashes a thumbs up. “Yes. I know well. I take.” He turns on the radio, starts blasting Christmas music, and pulls the taxi back out onto the street.

Bucky looks at his watch. “It’s almost nine,” he says, voice tight. “Didn’t you say they close at nine?”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. “We’ll make it.”

“And if we don’t?”

Clint shrugs. “We can always break in?”

“You’re a terrible Avenger, you know,” Bucky says, mouth quirking up. “First stealing cars, now art store robbery?”

“Gotta do what you gotta do,” Clint says with a laugh. “But I’m kidding. I wouldn’t actually break in. We’ll find a convenience store somewhere and buy him a pack of crayons. The really shitty ones. Tell him it’s payback for letting that robot clock me in the head today.”

Bucky bursts out laughing. “Fair.”

They make it with five minutes to spare, pulling up to the curb with a little skid of the brakes. “Wait for us,” Clint says breathlessly, and they run inside, shoving open the door with a jingle. “I’m sorry,” he says to the employee, who looks a little defeated to see two people walk in so close to closing. “We know what we want, we just need to—you know—find it. It’s a sketchbook, and—”

“In the back,” she says. “That’s where all the sketchbooks are. You have five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Clint tells her, and they book it to the back of the store. There’s _so many options_ , which Clint is a little baffled by, but he’s able to find the right one, pointing it out to Bucky with an excited motion. Bucky grabs it, and they go back up front. The girl is all too eager to check them out, practically kicking them both out the door. Clint feels slightly bad as she locks it behind them, the metal click loud even against the background of slowly passing traffic.

Bucky grips the bag tightly. “Well,” he says, looking up at Clint. ”I, uh—thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, suddenly realizing that this is it—this is the end of the road. Transaction over. A wave of disappointment hits him, spreading through him like wildfire. It leaves him cold, though, cold and empty inside. He doesn’t want it to be over. He’s been having fun, awkward beginnings aside, and there’s something he just really, really likes about Bucky. Something he wants to explore more of.

He clears his throat. _Never hurts to try._ “Do you…”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Wanna…” Clint gestures down the street. “I dunno. Get coffee?”

After a moment’s hesitation—which lasts years, according to Clint’s internal clock—Bucky nods. “I’d like that,” he says. “If any place is still open.”

“I know a shop,” Clint says, and there’s a dopey grin on his face that he can’t be bothered to hide. “They’ll be open.”

“I’d like that,” Bucky says softly, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face too, a trace of happiness in his eyes. “I’d like that a lot.”

Clint pays the taxi driver and retrieves his bow. Then they start walking down the street, and Clint has a sudden impulse to hold his hand. He grips his bow case instead, cold fingers tightening around the handle.

“Hey,” Bucky suddenly says. “You remember where we left the car, right?”

Clint nods. “Yes,” he says, then pauses. “Well. Kinda.”

Bucky sighs. “Well. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, just assume I’m dead, because Peggy froze me in a block of ice or something.”

“I want to meet this lady,” Clint directs Bucky around the corner. “She sounds badass.”

“She is. Even Steve’s scared of her.”

“Okay, now I _need_ to meet her.” He frowns. “Wait. Hear from you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Bucky stops under the awning of a shop, reaching into the bag and pulling out a Sharpie. He tugs the sticker off, then pops the cap off with his mouth before grabbing Clint’s free hand. “Here,” he says, and scrawls down a set of numbers on the skin. “Text me.”

“About the car?”

“Yeah,” he says, putting it back. “And…other things. If you wanted. After that.” There’s a redness to his cheeks, and the way he ducks his head a little tells Clint it’s not all cold-induced. “But only if you want.”

“I want,” Clint says immediately. “I definitely want. Fuck, I’d love that.”

The smile returns, maybe a little shy now, but still perfect, and Clint can’t help but smile back. He’s still tired from the fight earlier, still beat up and maybe a little bloody, but he’s also so fucking happy that he can hardly breathe. It’s like Christmas—hell, it _is_ Christmas. It’s Christmas, and he’s going to have a nice thing, and it’s about damn time something good happened to him.

“Mistletoe,” Bucky says, pointing up. Sure enough, there’s a little sprig of it dangling from the awning on a long string.

Clint looks at it. “Yep.”

“Never understood the point of it.”

Clint shrugs. “Maybe you just didn’t have the right person to kiss.”

Bucky tilts his head, studying him with an intense gaze. “Maybe not.”

“Just saying,” Clint says, letting a little smirk slip over his face. “If you wanted to try again. I’d be willing. You know. For science or whatever.”

“For science,” Bucky echoes, a skeptical, but also amused look on his face. “Really? That’s the line we’re going with?”

“Dunno,” Clint says. “Is it gonna work?”

“Why don’t you get a little closer and find out?”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Clint says, moving closer. Close enough to press himself against Bucky. Up close like this, the height difference is even more pronounced, but Clint likes it. Likes the way Bucky seems to fit just right against him, like he’s always belonged there.

“It is,” Bucky says, mouth barely inches from his own. “You game?”

“Hell yeah I am,” Clint murmurs, and leans down.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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